Short Fiction, Leo Tolstoy [general ebook reader .txt] 📗

“What a strange thing!” thought Iván. “There were no roots here at all, and yet here’s a root.”

Iván pushed his hand deep into the furrow, groped about, and, feeling something soft, seized hold of it and pulled it out. It was black like a root, but it wriggled. Why, it was a live imp!

“What a nasty thing!” said Iván, and he lifted his hand to dash it against the plough, but the imp squealed out:

“Don’t hurt me, and I’ll do anything you tell me to.”

“What can you do?”

“Anything you tell me to.”

Iván scratched his head.

“My stomach aches,” said he; “can you cure that?”

“Certainly I can.”

“Well then, do so.”

The imp went down into the furrow, searched about, scratched with his claws, and pulled out a bunch of three little roots, which he handed to Iván.

“Here,” says he, “whoever swallows one of these will be cured of any illness.”

Iván took the roots, separated them, and swallowed one. The pain in his stomach was cured at once. The imp again begged to be let off; “I will jump right into the earth, and never come back,” said he.

“All right,” said Iván; “begone, and God be with you!”

And as soon as Iván mentioned God, the imp plunged into the earth like a stone thrown into the water. Only a hole was left.

Iván put the other two pieces of root into his cap and went on with his ploughing. He ploughed the strip to the end, turned his plough over, and went home. He unharnessed the horse, entered the hut, and there he saw his elder brother, Simon the Soldier and his wife, sitting at supper. Simon’s estate had been confiscated, he himself had barely managed to escape from prison, and he had come back to live in his father’s house.

Simon saw Iván, and said: “I have come to live with you. Feed me and my wife till I get another appointment.”

“All right,” said Iván, “you can stay with us.”

But when Iván was about to sit down on the bench, the lady disliked the smell, and said to her husband: “I cannot sup with a dirty peasant.”

So Simon the Soldier said, “My lady says you don’t smell nice. You’d better go and eat outside.”

“All right,” said Iván; “anyway I must spend the night outside, for I have to pasture the mare.”

So he took some bread, and his coat, and went with the mare into the fields.

Having finished his work that night, Simon’s imp came, as agreed, to find Iván’s imp and help him to subdue the fool. He came to the field and searched and searched; but instead of his comrade he found only a hole.

“Clearly,” thought he, “some evil has befallen my comrade. I must take his place. The field is ploughed up, so the fool must be tackled in the meadow.”

So the imp went to the meadows and flooded Iván’s hayfield with water, which left the grass all covered with mud.

Iván returned from the pasture at dawn, sharpened his scythe, and went to mow the hayfield. He began to mow, but had only swung the scythe once or twice when the edge turned so that it would not cut at all, but needed resharpening. Iván struggled on for awhile, and then said: “It’s no good. I must go home and bring a tool to straighten the scythe, and I’ll get a chunk of bread at the same time. If I have to spend a week here, I won’t leave till the mowing’s done.”

The imp heard this and thought to himself, “This fool is a tough ’un; I can’t get round him this way. I must try some other dodge.”

Iván returned, sharpened his scythe, and began to mow. The imp crept into the grass and began to catch the scythe by the heel, sending the point into the earth. Iván found the work very hard, but he mowed the whole meadow, except one little bit which was in the swamp. The imp crept into the swamp and, thought he to himself, “Though I cut my paws I will not let him mow.”

Iván reached the swamp. The grass didn’t seem thick, but yet it resisted the scythe. Iván grew angry and began to swing the scythe with all his might. The imp had to give in; he could not keep up with the scythe, and, seeing it was a bad business, he scrambled into a bush. Iván swung the scythe, caught the bush, and cut off half the imp’s tail. Then he finished mowing the grass, told his sister to rake it up, and went himself to mow the rye. He went with the scythe, but the dock-tailed imp was there first, and entangled the rye so that the scythe was of no use. But Iván went home and got his sickle, and began to reap with that and he reaped the whole of the rye.

“Now it’s time,” said he, “to start on the oats.”

The dock-tailed imp heard this, and thought, “I couldn’t get the better of him on the rye, but I shall on the oats. Only wait till the morning.”

In the morning the imp hurried to the oat field, but the oats were already mowed down! Iván had mowed them by night, in order that less grain should shake out. The imp grew angry.

“He has cut me all over and tired me out⁠—the fool. It is worse than war. The accursed fool never sleeps; one can’t keep up with him. I will get into his stacks now and rot them.”

So the imp entered the rye, and crept among the sheaves, and they began to rot. He heated them, grew warm himself, and fell asleep.

Iván harnessed the mare, and went with the lass to cart the rye. He came to the heaps, and began to pitch the rye into the cart. He tossed two sheaves and again thrust his fork⁠—right into the imp’s back. He lifts the fork and sees on the prongs a live imp; dock-tailed, struggling, wriggling, and